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"If there's one, there's thirty of the miscreants!" he said, in a sort
of episode to his whispered comments. "Ay, ay; they are edging towards
the river--Peace, pup--peace--no, here they come this way again--the
thieves don't seem to know their own errand! If there were just six of
us, lad, what a beautiful ambushment we might make upon them, from
this very spot--it won't do, it won't do, boy; keep yourself closer,
or your head will be seen--besides, I'm not altogether strong in the
opinion it would be lawful, as they have done us no harm.--There they
bend again to the river--no; here they come up the swell--now is the
moment to be as still, as if the breath had done its duty and departed
the body."
The old man sunk into the grass while he was speaking, as if the final
separation to which he alluded, had, in his own case, actually
occurred, and, at the next instant, a band of wild horsemen whirled by
them, with the noiseless rapidity in which it might be imagined a
troop of spectres would pass.


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